Legal Advice
by gypsy season
Summary: Immediately following the events of 3.10 Merry Little Christmas, House calls a lawyer. But neither she nor House talk about the law. House, Stacy argument fic


The phone rang six times before someone answered it. "Hello." She sounded agitated, but at least it was a she that answered the phone and not a he.

"What were you doing?" he asked, right away trying to at least sound considerate.

"What?" She paused briefly, and then just as he had predicted, exploded in a healthy mix of surprise and fury. "Greg?!"

"Are you busy?"

"I…" she cut herself off and swore. "I should hang up on you."

"Alright," he said, and quietly waited for the click, or even slam, of their impending disconnection. It never came, though.

Stacy swore again.

"You never do what you're supposed to do, anyway," he said, trying not to sound too accusatory.

"I'm a lawyer. What's your excuse?" she snapped.

"Nice attitude."

"I'm not nice. Especially not to you." He could almost picture her, glaring at him, arms crossed over her chest. "I don't even want to _think _why you could be calling me."

He cleared his throat and trying to swallow away the taste of bile in his throat. "What do you know about drug offenders?"

"Let me see… they're usually around six feet tall, with grey thinning hair and not even the slightest amount of consideration. Oh, and they walk with a cane. Does that help?"

"Stacy, I'm serious," he said. He was.

"You're unbelievable!" She shouted, not even bothering to move the phone away from her mouth; talk about consideration.

"Didn't you use to like that about me?"

Stacy ignored his last comment, and wisely so. "Is this about your leg? Are you actually still trying to make me feel bad about this?" Her attitude was purely incredulous; House imagined that by now, she was probably twisting her hair in a tight knot around her fingers.

"You already do feel bad about it, Stacy."

"OF COURSE I still feel bad! What do you think? You think I like tearing out people's muscles? Putting them in comas? Chronic pain?"

The yelling was giving House a headache, so he said nothing; he had already made his key points.

"Greg, why did you call me?"

"I already told you."

House knew that Stacy was chewing on her lip, because she was breathing through her nose. "Well, I've had enough of this. This is why I left you. Twice, remember?"

"Stop being so dramatic," House said. "I'm not trying to get you back again."

"I don't know what you're trying to do. All I know is that I'm done with your shit."

"Why?" he asked innocently. "Is Mark's shit better?"

He had just dropped the M-bomb; Stacy blew up.

"House!"

"Does it smell nicer? I don't know him as well, so I'm going to need you to help with-"

"Go to hell," she said harshly.

"Thanks for all your help," he said, his words dripping with sarcasm. "This was truly invaluable."

"Just… Greg, could you please not call me again?" She sounded like she was making a difficult decision, one that she hadn't already made, back when House told her to leave and she did.

"Is it making Mark upset?"

"It's making me upset. I'm over you. I've moved on."

"Not a chance. You're detoxing, probably just as bad as I am."

"Greg?" Her voice trailed off, sounding like he might have actually, finally, grabbed her attention.

"You don't have to change your number or anything, if that's what you were worried about."

House's phone was the kind that turned off not by hanging up, but by a minimal-effort click of a button. Had the phone been an older kind he probably might have slammed it. Maybe he could have just slammed the thing against a wall.

But that was not something he needed to think about, so he tossed the phone to the other side of the couch and didn't think about it anymore.

It irritated him, how Cuddy thought she was doing him a favor by hiring a lawyer for him. But if she really wanted to help him, she should have given him his vicodin.

He was never going to win his case, not with someone who was just helping out so he could get paid. House would be defended in court, but only just. It was never going to help.

He heaved himself up from the couch with difficulty, squeezing the life out of the handle of his cane, and slowly made his way to the kitchen. After much banging around and slamming cabinets, he returned to the living room, lowered himself to the floor, and – once his leg quieted enough for him to see straight – began scrubbing his vomit out of the rug.


End file.
